


Eat Clay Love

by onepercent



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Inspired by Pygmalion and Galatea (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Yall CANNOT tell me I didn’t galaxy brain with this one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:21:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24976045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onepercent/pseuds/onepercent
Summary: Apparently Enjolras didn’t have any “hobbies”. Which is totally not true. He had plenty of hobbies! He liked to go to class, and lead L’ABC, and do research at the library, and read (mostly textbooks, but whatever), and hang out with his friends, and study, and protest, and discuss all sorts of things.Okay, maybe he did need some hobbies. Not because Courfeyrac continuously berated him for being “boring”, but because Enjolras made the executive decision to take more time to focus on relaxation. He made this decision all by himself and with no outside influence.Obviously.The only problem was that he didn’t know exactly where to start.[EDIT: Discontinued, but I wrote how it might have played out if it continued, if you’re interested in that.]
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Definitely thought I would be writing more during quarantine but I guess not (oops). In the meantime I’ve graduated high school yay! College here I come...maybe, if campuses are open in the fall. Who knows. 
> 
> This has been sitting in my drafts for a while now and I’m glad I got to revisit it. I think it’s a cool idea so I hope y’all like it too. Disclaimer that I don’t know how to sculpt so sorry if this sucks
> 
> Enjoy!

Apparently Enjolras didn’t have any “hobbies”. Which is totally not true. He had plenty of hobbies! He liked to go to class, and lead L’ABC, and do research at the library, and read (mostly textbooks, but whatever), and hang out with his friends, and study, and protest, and discuss all sorts of things. 

Okay, maybe he did need some hobbies. Not because Courfeyrac continuously berated him for being “boring”, but because Enjolras made the executive decision to take more time to focus on relaxation. He made this decision all by himself and with no outside influence. 

Obviously. 

The only problem was that he didn’t know exactly where to start. 

He first went to Combeferre, who attempted to get him into birdwatching. Unfortunately, Enjolras was a bit bored by animals he couldn’t touch, so he just appreciated his friend’s enthused running account of what he was seeing through his binoculars. His voice was very soothing, and Enjolras pretended very hard that he didn’t fall asleep against Combeferre’s shoulder that day, if only to preserve his own dignity. Thankfully his friend didn’t mention it, but Combeferre never really got around to inviting Enjolras again. 

Next was Jehan, who tried to teach him flute. Enjolras could work his way around a piano from a few years of lessons as a kid, but anything beyond that mystified him. His fingers were too clunky to form any kind of delicate melody, and he sometimes forgot to breathe in between the groups of notes, which was a problem for both musical and health reasons. He was slightly discouraged by how beautifully Jehan played, and how he knew he wouldn’t get to that level for a very long time. Also the squeaks he often produced gave him quite the headache. Jehan offered to give him more lessons at any convenient time, and Enjolras, unable to turn him down, agreed, but was always mysteriously busy when Jehan called him about it. 

Cosette, inspired by Enjolras’ recent foray into music, dragged him to a practice room in the choir department and forced him to practice scales. Enjolras did those just fine, and his voice wasn’t terrible either, but they both quickly discovered his inability to hold any semblance of a tune. The lesson was cut short when another choir student begged for the room, as she had an exam coming up. Cosette left a little deflated, but Enjolras was just relieved she didn’t make him sing anything but Do-Re-Mi. 

Marius mostly just liked to learn foreign languages and hang out with Cosette. He sympathized with Enjolras’ plight of being called boring, but unfortunate he couldn’t help, unless Enjolras really wanted to learn German. 

Then was Courfeyrac. Enjolras probably would have gone to him earlier, but he was still vaguely wounded from being called “boring”. Courfeyrac was a wonderful dancer, from ballroom to hip hop to salsa, and often exhibited these talents while flipping pancakes on Saturday mornings, waking both Enjolras and Combeferre from peaceful slumber more often than not with his less than stellar voice. They spread out the furniture in the living room so they could have a space to dance without going to Courfeyrac’s usual studio. However, somehow Enjolras managed to hit his ankles on every single corner imaginable while doing pliés or arabesques. Courfeyrac wasn’t even a bad teacher—it was just that Enjolras was clearly born with two left feet. They ended up stopping for the sake of Enjolras’ health. 

Joly’s hobby was just watching medical television shows and pointing out the inaccuracies. This was, unsurprisingly, very fun, as Enjolras greatly enjoyed yelling at things, but Musichetta said it didn’t count, and that they should keep it down so as not to send the neighbors down with pitchforks over the noise. 

Musichetta taught him to sew, which, while a very useful skill, was clearly not Enjolras’ forte. He kept pricking himself in the fingers and pulling the thread too tight, and he almost tore the garment in frustration many times. At least he was able to learn a few basic stitches—she sent him home with a small pack of supplies, should any of his clothes need emergency alterations—but he was less than relaxed by his bloodily fingertips. 

Bossuet liked to cook. He couldn’t bake to save his life, not with all the precise measurements and intricate steps, but for some reason cooking came easily, especially if you learned to take the cracked bowls and slightly singed dish towels in stride. Yet Enjolras failed to tell his friend at the beginning of their lesson that he was strongly allergic to tomatoes. He left to go to the restroom at one point and was immediately tasked with trying a big spoonful of the sauce, which he did with gusto. Later, while holding Enjolras’ hair back for him as he retched into the toilet, Bossuet informed him that he had added some tomatoes while he was gone, and that he, in hindsight, probably should have read the recipe to Enjolras before starting. It was an unlucky day for the both of them, to say the very least.

Bahorel somehow convinced him to take up Brazilian jiu jitsu. It was a mistake, and Enjolras still has the bruises to prove it. 

Last was Feuilly. Enjolras deeply admired Feuilly and had a bit of a man-crush on him that he would admit to no-one. Feuilly painted decorative fans in his free time, and often gave them out as gifts for birthdays or Christmas, and they were always cherished by their recipients. Enjolras had been given a few, and he had hung them up on his bedroom wall to just look at and think about how much he loved his friends and their many talents. And painting alongside Feuilly wasn’t that bad, either—he had to admit that it was pretty relaxing, and he was somewhat satisfied with the result, even if it wasn’t even a fraction as beautiful as Feuilly’s. He wouldn’t consider himself a creative person, but he liked the feeling of a tool in his hand. 

“I just wish it was...,” he lamented, trying to express a feeling deep in his chest that he could not explain. It was like a spark; a chasing of something he could not know. He enjoyed making things, but he could not tell you more than that. 

“I think I know what you mean,” said Feuilly with a twinkle in his eye. “Let me grab something real fast.”

And he quickly returned with a large block of clay. Feuilly, though more experienced with paints, was almost as good at sculpting. He taught Enjolras to form a bird in the palm of his hand, and a butterfly with paper-thin wings, and a vase with detailed handles. Enjolras enjoyed it rather more than he would have liked to admit, and was rather excited when he received his sculptures back from the kiln. Feuilly helped him paint them, and he put them on his dresser. “I made those,” he thought every time he looked at them. 

And so sculpting became his hobby. It was not one that he expected, nor one that he was perfect at, nor one that he could dedicate all his time to, but it was a hobby all the same. 

—

Practice makes perfect, or something like that. For Enjolras, practice made something closer to about one standard deviation above average, which was fine by him. Sculpting made him happy, in an uncomplicated way, despite his inexperience. Protesting and petitioning and leading L’ABC made him happy, but it also made him angry and frustrated and upset. Punching clay into submission works as a kind of therapy of the fists, and sculpting never failed to calm Enjolras after a long day of writing to his local representatives. 

And there’s also the smiles he could bring to his friends faces when he presented them with his newest creation. He crafted little woodland animals and video game characters and interesting shapes in between larger projects. His room, previously messy with papers and textbooks, became sprinkled with his own creations. He ate from bowls scarred by his thumbprints, and used paperweights that laid perfectly into the shape of his palm. Good-luck charms painted by his own shaky hand hung from his friends’ keychains, and jingled quietly in his own pocket the day of a big test or presentation. Slowly, his hands grew more calloused, and his life grew more colorful. 

Inspiration hit him often and at random. Colors, fabrics, words, scents, anything at all could strike him to pull out a lump of clay from his drawer. While this sometimes caused issues in the time-management department—how could he go finish the essay due at midnight if he was dead-set on finishing this real-size replica of a horny toad—these inspirations usually led to some of his favorite pieces, like that one of a dragon wrapped around its castle, or a book mid-page turn. However, no inspiration would ever come close to the spark he had one foggy morning, sipping his coffee from his favorite, roughly-hewn mug. 

Said spark came out of nowhere, really. He liked his early mornings quiet and uneventful, so it came as a real surprise when an idea hit him in the chest so hard he nearly spilled his coffee all over himself. 

“Today,” he thought, “I will create a man.”

Then, he thought: “Wait. What?”

He had never really sculpted a human before. He had made little cartoon people the size of a palm, or busts maybe the height of his forearm, but they weren’t particularly good. The proportions were usually decent, but the finer details left them looking rough around the edges. He much preferred, well, anything else really. 

Unfortunately for him, this bright nagging in his chest just wouldn’t go away, and it was a Saturday, so he had nothing better going on. So, resigned, Enjolras got to work. 

First, he went to the shop. He would probably need much thicker wire than he was used to, and there was no way he had the right type of clay for such a large piece. He would probably need a good base, too, and about a million other supplies…

He cleared all of the furniture to the edges of the living room and set up his station. All morning he focused on the wire skeleton, letting his hands take him where they wanted. He finally settled on a relaxed pose, with one arm to be bent up at the elbow to hold a something-he-hadn’t-thought-of-yet near the mouth. It was a bit cliche, and altogether too reminiscent of the many Greek statues he had seen in his visits to the local art museum, but when he looked up from his trance around mid-afternoon, he was pleased. 

He took a quick break for lunch and got back to work. He started by beginning the rough shapes of the lower legs and feet, fleshing out the toes and ankles and calves. The details were clunky, but the overall shape seemed right, so he kept going. It wasn’t until the windows dimmed enough that he could barely differentiate the clay from his own hands that he realized that he had spent the whole day sculpting. Rather than exhaustion or disappointment at a day wasted, he felt only a desire to continue. 

Before he could ponder that too much, a key clicked in the lock of the front door, and in came Courfeyrac and Combeferre, who had been out all day doing who knows what. “Dinner!” called Courfeyrac, and Enjolras stood for go to the kitchen, following the scents of Indian takeout. 

Over the meal, Courfeyrac kept up a running dialogue about what he and Combeferre had attended to all day, which was honestly rather impressive considering the velocity at which he was both talking and shoveling food into his mouth. Combeferre interjected here and there, and while Enjolras was happy to hear about his friends’ day, he kept quiet. For reasons he couldn’t quite parse, he was reluctant to show them his work. 

After dinner, Enjolras volunteered to do the dishes since the others had gotten the food. Swept up in his own thoughts and determination not to splash dirty dish water all over himself, he was startled when Courfeyrac called from the living room. 

“Hey, why is there a dude next to the sofa?” he asked, popping his head back into the kitchen. 

Determined not to show his uncertainty, Enjolras replied, “It’s a new project. We’re discussing humanity in relation to ancient art and its meaning in my Culture class, and I thought it would help me connect to the content more.” This was, if you could kindly pardon my language, total bullshit, but relating it to his studies sounded better than admitting he had no idea what he was doing. 

“Huh,” said Courfeyrac. He looked at Enjolras strangely for a second before disappearing. 

It was quiet the rest of the evening. 

—

Enjolras worked the rest of the weekend like a man on fire. He finished the legs by Sunday brunch, and fell asleep on the couch quickly after blocking out the torso. The rest of the week passed in a similar manner—every moment not working on school or L’ABC was spent on the sculpture taking up their living room. By the next weekend, all but the head was nearly complete. 

He decided to wire out the head separately and attach it when it was finished, mostly because he would have to find a stool to stand on to reach the top. (Making the statue taller than him was a mistake.) Saturday morning he made a wire skeleton and got to work. Courfeyrac and Combeferre mulled around him, but at this point knew not to interrupt Enjolras’ work. 

His hands seemed to work of their own accord over the next few days, with no input from Enjolras. The jaw became squared, the smile crooked, and the eyes slightly squinted in silent laughter. Enjolras’ nail defined the wrinkled crows feet, and the curve of his palm created the swell of his cheeks. His hot breath softened the arch of the brow, and his thumbprint formed a swirling iris. Hair curled in thick strands, the clay molded into place as if it was a storming sea. 

Finished, Enjolras stepped back from the head. The skin was riddled with small imperfections from the press of his fingers, and the nose was crooked and large. The ears weren’t even, and the jaw was sharper on one side than the other. But, looking at that mysterious grin, Enjolras couldn’t help but be satisfied with his work from the past few weeks. 

He moved the ottoman from the couch close to the statue, and placed the head upon the wires extending from its neck. He quickly concealed the seam of the two pieces with a few well placed swipes of his thumb before stepping down. Looking at it completed, he was happy. He would sand it tomorrow, and then hopefully that nagging would go away. 

Yet as he fell asleep on the couch, content in his hard work, the feeling in his chest grew only stronger. 

-

He was awaken by the sound of footsteps putzing around the couch he was sleeping on. “‘Ferre?” he mumbled, half asleep. 

“No, it’s me,” said the statue, leaning over Enjolras. His eyes were green, even in the dim light. “My name’s…” He trailed off. 

Enjolras, quite sure he was imagining this whole interaction, asked, “Are you a dream?” However, his sleep-addled brain interfered before his mouth could work properly, so all that came out was a muddled “arrr…” before he fell back to sleep.


	2. Oopsie

Brief explanation of what would have occurred should I have written the second chapter which will never happen for reasons I will detail in the author’s note at the end if you care.

Enjolras would wake up the next day and be like um excuse me sir wtf. R would explain what happened in a kind of confusing way to cover up how he didn’t really know what was going on either. C&C would walk in and also be confused but accept the reality because honestly weirder things have probably happened. E&C&C have an aside discussion and eventually agree that this R dude can’t be that bad, and can stay with them until they figure out what’s going on, and also go with the name R because I realized after writing this that the joke of Grantaire’s name doesn’t work in English and the end of the last chapter makes it obvious that they are speaking English but oh well I’m trying my best.

Immediately R is very enthralled with this new world he gets to inhabit. Enjolras shows him his other sculptures and he’s like ok dopamine art is Cool and once he meets the rest of the gang at a meeting or something Feuilly shows him how to paint or something. Enjolras tries his best to show R around but is kind of annoyed by it because he has better things to do like radical anarchism. R quickly absorbs art and culture and reads books that E has lying around but interprets then in a wildly different way than E does because he didn’t exist until a few weeks ago. This starts arguments but we will get to that later.

R is happy to be around friends other than E bc obviously he has started to fall in love with his creator because he’s hot and passionate and is actually pretty nice when you catch him when he’s working, as he likes to explain things to R that he enjoys. Unfortunately R has also looked in the mirror and noticed that he Ugly because sculpting faces is hard. He mentions this cynically in passing and E takes personal offense to it, and eventually the conversation spirals into how R and E disagree fundamentally about many things and E throws out the iconic line of “You are incapable of believing of willing of living and of dying” because Guess What R is just a statue and apparently doesn’t have feelings bc he’s not a person. 

Somehow this argument gets resolved and they work through their trauma and get together Hell yeah. They Decide to take things slow and there’s like 500 words describing their developing relationship as they learn to do art together and argue constructively about things and hold hands and be cute. Eventually there comes a scene where E has to explain kissing bc R has only a vague idea of it bc again he didn’t exist until like 3 months ago. It’s very funny bc E is kinda reserved and doesn’t really know what’s happening either and it’s just a very sweet moment showing their growing relationship and how they really are together forever. They both lean in towards the kiss and E closes his eyes and feels the brief moment of warmth of R’s lips and breath before it goes cold. E opens his eyes and R has turned back into a statue from their kiss and is gone forever Bc in the original story of Galatea and Pygmalion the statue is brought to life by a kiss and i thought it would be cool and subversive to do the opposite so yeah the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably not going to be posting any more on AO3 for a couple reasons:
> 
> 1) the amount of joy I get from posting has declined a lot in the past few months. I like my concepts but fail to execute them past the initial idea, and it seems most readers don’t really enjoy my fics that much either. I do it like 60% for myself and 40% for others’ enjoyment, so when we both aren’t really having a good time, i have no motivation.
> 
> 2) I don’t particularly enjoy reading much fan fiction anymore. There’s a few fics across several fandoms that I really enjoy and read over and over again, but they are few and far between. Nothing seems to catch my eye and I feel like the fandoms I enjoy are past their prime in terms of content that I PERSONALLY enjoy (not speaking for everyone here, just my personal experience). 
> 
> 3\. I just don’t have the time. I graduated high school this year and am heading to college in a few weeks, so even if I did update it would be even more sporadic than usual which is saying a lot. It just doesn’t make sense for me to spend time on something I don’t really enjoy anymore when I’m limited on time in the first place.
> 
> If you reached the end of this: Thank y’all for always supporting me. Even if you just read my shit and left a few kudos every once and a while, I really appreciate your support and time. If you consistently read my fics and left comments, I can’t thank you enough for spurring me on to think creatively and practice my writing skills in a way that people enjoy. I don’t think I have any real fans but that’s okay knowing I brought a smile to one person’s face at some point over these past few years. 
> 
> It’s been real. Thanks again. See you on the flip side


End file.
